Hey hey hey, America! A very Fat Albertesque greeting goes out to all of you out there today. The dog days of summer are upon us, but we're hangin' tough in the most real sense of the phrase, not like a bunch of pampered fifteen year-old singing poofs with their names magic-markered into their underwear elastic. Not like that at all. We're savoring the last month of summer's bounty while preparing to grit our teeth through the movie theater Death Valley that is fall. You all know I've never been a fan of dicking around any longer than is necessary or fashionable, so let's get on with the savoring!
In Theaters
Blood Work
Note to the last three desperate fanboys out there who are still arguing that Clint Eastwood isn't getting old: His latest thriller revolves around the premise of waiting for blood test results to see if his character does or does not have Alzheimer's. Can you handle the suspense? Was his recent pantsless serenade of the president's daughter the result of neurofibrillary tangles and senile plaques in his brain, or has he just been out on the range too long? And if it isn't the former, can he remember the number for his defense attorney? Meanwhile, a sadistic killer is leaving Eastwood clues at the crime scenes that may allow him to crack the case wide open… or is Clint just forgetting to pick up after himself? And who changed all the presets on his car stereo?
Full Frontal
With all of the premiers and screenings and special viewings that Hollywood movies have these days, it's often necessary for a director to watch his own movie up to a half-dozen times, whether he likes it or not. Usually this isn't a big deal, but since Steven Spielberg's last movie was the eight-hour floater
A.I., I had to wonder what effect this would have on him. The answer is clear in Spielberg's latest film, which can be best described as a valentine to the lobotomy. America's favorite talking reindeer, Julia Roberts, stars as the film's lobotomized heroine who discovers that life, network sitcoms and popular music are all a lot more fun once you've had your cerebellum neutered. Roberts drools her way through the role with an intensity I thought she reserved only for
People magazine photo shoots.
Love and a Ballet
Love and Basketball director and "funniest pseudonym" award winner Gina Prince-Bythewood tries to double-dip that chip and gets burned bad in this terribly conceived urban drama. Rap star Treacle stars as a hip-hoppin' mad black ballet star who falls in love with a French ballerina and must learn to do ballet by the rules, something that goes against all of his trash-talking street-style ballet instincts. Once again, Hollywood overestimates urban America's taste for ballet and rap stars in tights. If somebody doesn't get shot at the premiere, I'm going to call and ask for my money back.
Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio of Disguise
Lately it seems like everybody is trying to cash in on the unexpected success of 1999's
Being John Malkovich by grafting a real celebrity onto their own half-assed pot brainstorm. This time the premise is that the chick from
Robin Hood is dressed up as Dana Carvey, playing herself in drag in a movie about an Italian waiter. If you're confused, don't feel bad: they had to film the movie in sections with three different crews so nobody would try to figure out what it was supposed to be about, which became necessary after three gaffers exploded during pre-production. In the end, the film is just a run-of-the-mill mindfuck, about on par with
Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and
Beaches.
Spy Kids 2: The Island of Lost Diaries
Everybody's favorite anonymous preteen Latino superspies go AWOL and give up the spy game when they discover a secret island crammed to the gills with kids' diaries, stolen by the evil chimpanzee minions of Professor Nosprabloom. Can their crotchety 30 year-old parents convince them that saving the world is more important than laughing their asses off all day while they read the private confessions of every kid alive? The parents come armed with stacks of
US Weekly and
People magazines as a form of eavesdropping methadone, but will it be enough? The franchise is back with another worthy installment that's a big improvement over
Spy Kids Breakdance Fever and
Spy Kids and Mary Kate & Ashley's Best Sleepovers. Everyone's as good as you'd expect them to be, but to be honest I don't think they can get away with casting Cheech Marin as a ten year-old much longer.
XXX
Oscar winner Tom Hanks is out to sabotage his typecast image as a bedwetting malcontent in this gruff action thriller cut from the same cloth as
Buford's Beach Bunnies and Jeff Speakman's
With a Grenade Crammed Up Your Ass. Don't let the title get you too excited, though, all three of the X-es refer to Hanks' three ex-wives, who have hatched a diabolical plan to mess up his shit and take over Eastern Europe as a side-note. Many in the audience won't even recognize Hanks, who put on over 100 pounds of beef for the role and pulls off the monotone part so well you'll think he can't act at all. Easily Hanks' best "against-the-grain" role since he played that scary-assed clown in Stephen King's
Itshay.
That's all she wrote, boys and girls. Be sure to swing back this way in two weeks to see what's washed up, dead and bloated, on the shores of entertainment. You can bet Roland will be there, poking it with a stick and taking detailed notes. Until that time, watch one for me, America.
